February Heat. Wilson Roberts

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      “Of course,” Chance said, flashing me a warning sign with his thumb and forefinger when I started to object.

      She thought for a long a moment before agreeing. “If I think it’s a real need. Final judgment has to be mine.”

      Chance nodded at me, crooking a finger as he went inside the cabin. “Follow me.”

      He lifted the lid of a trunk-like compartment under the hinged board beneath his mattress and pointed at several guns. “My cache,” he said. “Two sawed off shotguns, a flare gun, a pre-World War II Marlin twenty-two rifle, two Smith and Wesson thirty-eight Police Specials and two Ruger twenty-two target pistols.”

      I rubbed my head. “I knew you’d have something, but this is an arsenal.”

      He gave me his deep chuckle. “It’s not exactly heavy duty ordinance, Frank. I used to run a little smoke and other stuff back in the days when this boat had an engine and I was a little less sensible. These things have never been fired, except for the Rugers, which I use to plink at beer cans bobbing in the waves. They’ll all need cleaning and oiling.”

      I reached down and picked up the Marlin.

      “What do you think we’ll need?” he asked.

      “Let’s take the sawed off shotguns and the thirty-eights. Then we’ll each have one.”

      He ran his finger along the barrel of his thirty-eight. “Hell, let’s take them all.

      Liz shook her head, running her hands through her hair. “I’ve never shot a gun.”

      “Start,” Chance said, throwing a sawed-off at her. “Great gun. You just point it at someone at close range. Bang. Poof. Badguyburger.”

      “You talk pretty mean for a man who only plinks at beer cans,” I said.

      “I read a lot.”

      He does. Chance could offer a course in American Popular Literature. He could do a great job of teaching Comparative Light Literature. He’s equally at home with the beach novels of Europe, Latin America, the U.S. and Canada. In translation, of course. The problem is he’d clutter his students’ minds with literary theory, like the crapola about Huck and Jim and Batman and Robin.

      “I suppose you’ve got ammunition,” I said.

      He rooted through the gun stash, pulling out six large plastic food storage bags, each double twist tied. Four were filled with shotgun shells, one had a dozen or more fifty shot boxes of twenty- two long rifle hollow points, the other contained several dozen thirty-eight slugs.

      “It’s been around a while,” he said, opening a shotgun shell. “Dry as a bone.”

      We took all the guns out and put them on top of the mattress. We cleaned and oiled each one and packed the guns and ammunition in a canvas duffle bag, and took the dinghy back to the dock. We tied up and were walking toward the Gurgel when L. Arthur Parker, Prime Minister of St. Ursula, crossed the road from Central Plaza.

      “Good morning Fran,” he said, dropping the k from my name as he often does to annoy me. “And Chance, my friend, how are you?” He bowed slightly to Liz, mostly in a rather obvious attempt at sizing up her body.

      Although Parker and Chance were in business together some years before, back in the days when The Maybelline had a working engine, L. Arthur Parker has never known whether Chance was a first or last name. Chance has always said L. Arthur would deport him for that alone, were it not for their old business connections.

      “Good morning Mr. Prime Minister.” I don’t quibble with him over his mispronunciation of my name. Chance says I don’t even get The Edge with Parker. With good reason. He could get me deported for having too much gray in my beard. Civil rights for non-citizens on St. Ursula is not one of the Government’s high priority items. Besides, he does it on purpose, demonstrainge my insignificance in his world.

      The Prime Minister was wearing a pastel pink guayaberra shirt, its square cut bottom hanging over beige polyester pants. A pair of open toed sandals completed the outfit. A thick black mustache almost obscured his upper lip. Setting his attaché case on the pavement he stood more erectly than usual, trying to equal Chance’s height. He almost succeeded.

      “Who is your lovely friend, Fran?”

      “Forgive my rudeness,” I said. “Mr. Prime Minister. Elizabeth Ford, Ms. Ford, the Honorable L. Arthur Parker, Prime Minister of the Independent British Island of St. Ursula.”

      “Charmed, Ms. Ford.” L. Arthur Parker gave her another slight bow and pressed the back of her hand to his lips, gently kissing her fingertips.

      He had her. Guys like him always do. I’ll never understand it. The strongest, most independent, most autonomous woman in the world can act like a jackass for a guaranteed eight and a half seconds after having her hand kissed by someone who bows slightly at the waist. Thirteen seconds if the guy is a Prime Minister.

       L. Arthur Parker happens to be a slick Prime Minister. He is slender and tall with deep brown eyes flashing with articulate intelligence. Educated in anthropology, languages and mathematics at Cambridge he has doctorates in both anthropology and medicine from Harvard. He had been working on a post-doctoral fellowship at Berkeley, studying social factors in disease, when his father died and he came home to oversee the family investments, which included extensive real estate holdings throughout the Caribbean and a small private mental hospital on St. Ursula where the emotional and addictive problems of the very wealthy are treated with extreme privacy and comfort. He ran for the Legislature after a couple of years and is now in his third term as Prime Minister.

      Shortly after his return he married Vivian Bothwell. Ronald Bothwell, her father had been the British governor here in the mid-Sixties. He retired from the Foreign Service to a house he built on The Knob at East End, overlooking Deadman Beach, next to Parker’s palatial home.

      L. Arthur is an operator, but he isn’t a bad Prime Minister. The roads are in good repair and, with few exceptions, all paved. The potholes I had been dodging lately were the results of unusually heavy winter rains, and already many had been filled. Garbage is picked up daily. The island has full employment, and a well managed program of social services, most of them paid for by taxes and fees collected from tourists, especially those who keep their expensive boats registered in Ursuline waters.

      “I certainly hope you will allow Mrs. Parker and me to entertain you and Ms Ford at dinner in a week or so.”

      “Mr. Prime Minister, we’d be honored,” I said.

      “Wonderful.” He pulled an appointment calendar from his back pocket. Shaking his head, clucking his tongue, he said, “It’s distressing how busy things get. Would Tuesday the twenty-eighth be all right?”

      “Perfect,” I said, shaking his hand. He kissed Liz’s fingertips for a second time, picked up his attaché case and crossed back to Central Plaza, where he had a corner suite of offices in the third floor of the gold domed Government House his administration had just completed building. It was by law the tallest structure on the island, three stories with a one story cross at the top. The Prime Minister’s personal office overlooked the entire government square and its adjacent harbor.

      “I won’t be able to have dinner with him on the twenty- eighth,” Liz said.

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